No Such Thing As Heroes
by M'selle de Paris
Summary: Basically the whole affair plus a lot of preOpera House material told through Raoul's eyes. However, it's not the usual IhateErikforwantingChristine story: Raoul & the Phantom have an intricate past together, and old beliefs die hard...
1. The House On The Beach

_So- another quick summary: basically, I'm going to tell the story- or most of it, anyways- from Raoul's POV, but with a certain twist that will alter the story on his side (you'll see what I mean soon enough- not in this chapter, maybe, but later on). It's a little bit of an experiment, this- I'm not at my computer at home now, so it's a little bit awkward to not be able to save documents on this computer, so- bear with any mistakes and such. That's about all- and so, without further ado...le story!_

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I still remember the very first time I saw him, marvel that he was at the time. From the moment he performed his first simple but entertaining card trick to the grand finale in which he sent the entire audience into a trancelike and delirious state by the mere sound of that mesmerizing voice of his, he was a hero in my eyes.

Mother and Father had not yet passed away, and in their lives they were the kind of people extremely fond of travel. And fortunately, being rich, it was a hobby they could well afford—and were well-known for it, too, being of such stature in society. They entertained a sort of greed for anything exotic or foreign, and had a thirst for adventure that was never quite satiated, even after returning from year-long voyages at sea or treks to the summits of the tallest mountains in Africa. The minute they returned home, they were already planning out their next trip, wherever it may be—anywhere away from home, it seemed.

Of course, this meant that the births of Philipe and myself were an enormous inconvenience to them. They were delighted by us, by having children, of course—another great adventure of life, perhaps. But as it hindered them in their travels, we were quite a burden to them, in that way. I remember passing the living room and hearing them inside talking, voices low, reminiscing on previous ventures and dreaming of further exploration of anywhere and everywhere they had not yet seen. And I remember the response I got when I asked them why they didn't travel again, why we didn't go somewhere—as a family this time.

"You're not old enough," my mother had replied, gently, yet somewhat coldly. My father had merely looked away, staring out the window—regretfully, it seemed. As though he regretted…_me_.

My parents weren't cruel people—and they certainly weren't the type who might abandon us, Philipe and I, should we become too bothersome. No, they wouldn't think of it—and yet, it did feel as though they sometimes wished we hadn't been born; so that they might go about their blissful, childless lives in perfect contentment, as they had before our arrival into the world. Although, I'd overheard them once speaking of how they felt that Philipe was indeed ready for travel…but not I. I was still too young; too emptyheaded yet to take in such an experience.

And so was born a terrible desperation, on my part, to grow up as quickly as possible. I wasted most of my childhood trying to prove to them that I _wasn't_ a child at all; that I was a man and ready to see the world as they once had.

I remember most clearly one of my last attempts to prove to them my courage; that I was brave enough to face anything that might come along in our travels; to _do_ anything. We were staying at our house by the sea for a week or so during the summer—of course we had to have a house elsewhere, anywhere other than home; I should think my parents would have withered away had we not even that little summer house to escape to every once in a while—and we were walking along the beach when Philipe spotted a girl and a much older man, presumably her father, standing just at the water's edge. The girl was on the verge of tears, and it seemed as though she were also on the edge of throwing herself into the water, for a reason which we soon found out: a red scarf, her red scarf, was floating steadily away with the current.

In a moment of partial madness, I tore away from my parents and threw myself into the water, determined to rescue the ratty thing, to show my parents—and Philipe, who'd always taunted me about being such a cowardly little boy—that I wasn't a coward at all; I'd do anything for them to see my bravery and to take me on some great adventure.

I remember the water being unbearably frigid, and I'd almost gone back—but I then caught sight of the girl's face. I hadn't really seen her before diving in—I'd only seen the scarf and my body took control of my mind, before I'd even made the conscious decision. But two things struck me about that little girl: firstly, her incredible youthful beauty; enough to make anyone stop dead in their tracks (and I'm sure I would have, had I not been swimming and would have drowned had I done so), and the look of relief and thanks that graced that pretty little face. She was watching me as though I were some kind of angel, her hero, saving that stupid silly scarf—but that look of pure admiration was enough to make me finish what I'd started. How would I feel if I returned to shore without it, and washed that wonderful expression from her innocent, angelic face?

When I did finally return, the red scarf soaked but clutched tightly in my hand, my thoughts no longer dwelled solely on impressing my family. This girl had changed everything. I felt proud yet slightly abashed, handing the dripping thing back to her, but that melted away into an inexplicable joy upon hearing her cry of delight and having her arms thrown about my neck.

"Thank you!" she repeated, again and again. "You see, it was a birthday gift, I got it only yesterday, from Papa," she explained, indicating the man standing just behind her, smiling down at both of us.

"That was a very noble thing to do, young man," her father said. "Very brave…was it cold?" he asked, smiling.

"Oh! Yes—well, only a little—" I stammered, looking down as I felt the girl's gaze fixed upon me.

I soon went back to my parents, but not before learning that the girl—Christine, Christine Daae—and her father lived there in that very town, in a house not far from ours. When I returned, my parents chastised me for running off without permission, but they did so lightheartedly, amused by the whole scene.

"You know," said my father (well aware of the reason for all my acts of bravado), "I do think it might be time for us to begin our travels once again, the four of us."

I should have been delighted, but travel seemed so trivial to me now…the only place I desired to travel was across the street, to Christine Daae's house!

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_So- to be continued! Review with feedback. Going in a good direction? Anything lacking? Raoul OOC at all? Just- REVIEW!_


	2. Songs In Her Head

_Back with another chapter! The third one will probably come soon after this- I'm in quite a writing mood now- I just finished this and I really want to keep going; to get to the good parts! Yep, that's right- I've got some stuff planned out for you._

_Disclaimer: No need. You guys- it's FanFiction. It's just a giant disclaimer in itself. All these stories are quite obviously not ours._

_Well, that's it, really. Enjoy!_

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True to their word, Mother and Father began their arrangements for a six- or seven-month tour of the East—anywhere and everywhere they hadn't been before, plus some of the places they'd always longed to revisit. Throughout their planning they constantly reminded me of how I would have to listen to them and obey their instructions lest something dangerous happen, and how I wasn't to complain should the heat become too much for me or if I tired of walking. I understood and agreed; I'd waited so long to travel, I wouldn't dare ruin it now!

But still, another part of me dropped the desire like a hot coal, in favor of staying in that house on the beach, where I could be near to Christine. There were a lot of pretty little girls my age, but I'd hardly batted an eye at any of them until Christine. And it wasn't just that she was pretty—there was something in her face, her eyes, that just exuded a kind of pure, sweet innocence—she was the kind of girl who still believed in fairy tales and angels (though she could very well have been one herself, in my eyes!), and wished for no mortal desire as such. All she wanted was to live on her little cloud, surrounded by unicorns and rainbows—and though it made me smile despite myself when she said so, it also fascinated me, and made me wonder—why couldn't that happen? Why couldn't one go live in their own fairy tale?

And being with Christine _was_ indeed a fairy tale. When we sat together on the beach or went walking in the town, the innocence was still displayed, but with a smatter of common sense, too—she kept her head in public. But, at her house…once inside, the normal world ceased to exist entirely, and there was only me, slowly suspending my disbelief; Christine, lost entirely to her dreams; and her father—the man that wove all these dreams for her.

Her father was a remarkable man. Like Christine, he had the ability to appear perfectly grounded with his fellow men. But for his daughter, he was full of adventures and stories and mystery; all coated with pixie dust. He was the one who slipped the rose-colored glasses on Christine when she looked about the world. But it was a good thing—without her father and his extraordinary imagination, she would be—I hate to say it—utterly dead inside. The beauty and innocence I recognized in her soul would no longer be. Her father was the one thing—the only person in her life who brought her to life as he did. The reason for this was the death of her mother: Christine had been alive and alert and about six years old when her mother passed away. It had nearly killed her (and her father, too, but he was the kind who would never let on how badly he felt), but with her father's help—and her father's music—she remained 'alive' and full of hope and love…and music.

Music was another thing about this family that never ceased to amaze me. Her father was an incredible violinist—and from what I gathered, he'd been a legend in his day. And now, it seemed, he was passing on everything he knew to Christine, who shared his same complete devotion to the art. She played violin beautifully, and piano, the same—but her voice was her true gift; that was quite apparent. She was a little lacking in volume, and still wasn't completely in control of her own instrument—but it was all there. I knew this talent wouldn't go to waste (and how right I was! Ironic, isn't it?), and I told her so frequently.

"You'll be famous, Christine! You'll sing for kings and queens one day!" I would say, after she finished a piece, with her father on the piano as accompaniment. (I myself wasn't entirely musically inclined, but I had an enormous appreciation for it, and recognized whether it was good, bad, or absolutely extraordinary.)

She would always smile modestly, but I knew she was bursting with joy inside at the praise—and at the exhilaration that her song gave her. And then she'd join right in the fantasy, as always.

"Yes, for kings and queens—and I won't be paid like everyone else is; they'll give me a palace to live in!" she would giggle.

"With servants who sing to you at breakfast!"

"Oh! And a dog trained to carry my violin!"

"With a cat to tune it!"

"And a piano that plays by itself!"

"And the Angel of Music to instruct you," her father put in, in his soft, deep voice. Both Christine and I turned to look at him quizzically.

"Who is the Angel of Music?" asked Christine. But I could already see her mind reeling in delight. Angel! Music! Those two words were enough!

"Well, my child…when I am gone—" Christine tried to interject, but her father held up a hand to silence her— "and I am no longer there to instruct you in your music, I will send the Angel of Music to you: he is where all music comes from. He created it, in the beginning, with God at his side. Music is one of the most precious pieces of Heaven to be gifted with, Christine…some are born by the angels of art, or stories, or knowledge to teach. But you, my child," he put a hand to her chin and gently turned her face back to him, as she had been staring off into nothingness in wonder, "were born to the Angel of Music. As a father my task was to teach it to you, as I was born to him, too. But when I am gone…you shall receive instruction from the greatest musician of all. Your Angel."

Christine and I sat there before him, dumbstruck.

"Am I…am I the only one who will be taught by the Angel of Music?" she asked him breathlessly.

"There are indeed few who are taught by the Angel, but no, you are not the only one: I don't believe I've ever told you of Lotte, little Lotte?"

Christine shook her head, and snuggled down into the armchair where she sat to get comfortable for the story. Nothing delighted her more than a new story told by her father.

"Well. Little Lotte, as she was known, was a young girl—like yourself—who lived with her grandmother, because both her parents had passed away just after her birth. But it was clear from the start that she was one for music. She loved her stories; she loved her fantasies; she loved her imagination—but there was nothing she loved more than music. Why? Because, since her parents weren't there to teach it to her, she was taught by the Angel of Music—and with the Angel, music isn't just music—it's an incredible dream from which the pupil never awakes."

Christine's mouth was slightly open by now, as she listened to her father's tale. I smiled at the sight, but in all honesty, the story intrigued me just as much as it did her.

"And Lotte lived in this dream her whole life, with the Angel of Music by her side. There's a song, in fact…" he added thoughtfully, and sang softly (for he, too, was gifted with quite a voice): "Little Lotte let her mind wander…Little Lotte thought: Am I fonder of dolls…or of goblins, of shoes…or of riddles, of frocks…or of chocolates?"

Christine giggled, and her father winked at me. I smiled, too, but I was still too awestruck by the whole thing that all I wanted was for him to go on.

"No—what I love best, Lotte said, is when I'm asleep in my bed: and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head…"

Christine echoed softly, "The Angel of Music sings songs in my head…"

I don't remember much else about that night, but my family arrived shortly afterwards to collect me (while they planned, they let Philipe play ball on the beach with his friends, and I stayed with the Daaés). I said my goodbyes, and as the door closed behind me, I heard Christine speak in a dreamy voice: "Shall I meet him tonight, Father? Shall he come tonight?"

If he was to come that night for Christine, I did not know—I didn't hear her father's reply. I got in the waiting carriage with Mother and Father and Philipe. During the ride my thoughts dwelled only on Christine and the Angel of Music…whoever that divine being was.

At the time, I listened to the story as avidly as she, and believed in it just as much. But somewhere inside me, I did know that the day would come when I would have to give these fantasies up.

My only worry was that Christine didn't know that, and I couldn't imagine the state she'd be in when she finally had to….

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_Eh oui. **Review!**_


	3. The First Goodbyes

_Just as I promised- the third chapter's up and at 'em!...ish...- Anyways. Thanks for the reviews, guys- as always, it's just that extra bit of motivation!_

_Well, yes, the time has come for Raoul to leave...but you all knew that. I won't give anything away in this little preamble. Hope you like. Read on!_

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Just as I had forseen, the day came when we had to leave our summer house on the beach, and I had to say goodbye to Christine.

It had been five wonderful weeks since that fateful day when I rescued her scarf from the sea. The entire time had been more magical than any other time in my life, and I feared forgetting it all…or forgetting _her_.

I remember the very day I bid her farewell; the last day (for a long time, at least) I was with her in her own little home. Her father welcomed me in when I arrived at the door, and I ran up the stairs to the attic, where we'd always sat and talked, and dreamed.

As I reached the top of the stairs, I paused before the door that led into the attic room. How to say goodbye? She had truly changed my life, whether I completely realized it then or not. I was afraid of leaving her—not only for me, but also because I wasn't sure how she would bear it. Neither of us made any secret of our feelings towards one another, and I know she felt just as strongly for me as I did for her.

I opened the door softly and crept in to find her curled up in the armchair in the far corner, her head buried in her arms. She shifted when she heard my entrance, but did not look up.

I went to her tentatively, standing just beside the chair.

"I have to leave," I said pointlessly—she already knew; I'd told her the date of my departure long ago. We'd always known that this day would come, but we'd never quite anticipated or prepared for it.

Her little shoulders went up in a seemingly careless shrug, but I noticed her whole body trembling. Finally she looked up, teary-eyed, and flung her arms around my neck. We both knew it was silly pretending we didn't care: she was the most important person to me in the world, alongside my brother—and I was the same to her, along with her father. Neither of us tried to hide our devastation.

Finally she pulled back to look me in the eye.

"You'll come back—won't you?" she asked pleadingly.

"Of course," I replied forcefully. "You're my best friend."

"I—I think I should die if I never saw you again," she stated dramatically. I looked at her and smiled.

"Then I'll have to come back, won't I?"

She returned the smile, but the tears remained. I felt the same devils prick my eyes in turn, and looked down, just a little embarrassed. I heard Christine giggle a little, and she leaned forward—and before I knew what was happening, I felt her lips, soft and warm and light as springtime, brush my cheek.

The warmth spread through my body like a flame, and I knew my face had gone red—I looked up to find Christine blushing, too, and looking away.

But even though it was awkward, it was absolutely and perfectly right. It was at that moment that I knew Christine would always be a part of my life—and I was perfectly content to have it be so.

In that moment of certainty, I leaned forward in turn and returned the kiss—on her lips this time. It only lasted a split second, and we were both flushing and turning away afterwards—but we both felt the promise of the action this time. I knew she'd acknowledged the same fate as I.

There was nothing left to say, and so after a few moments we began to make our way back downstairs. My family was already in the carriage and waiting on the street outside her front door, and we shared one final hug before I whispered a quick "Goodbye" in her ear.

"I'll…miss you," she replied. I didn't even need to speak in order to reciprocate; the words were pouring out my eyes with the final glance.

I turned to her father, too, and thanked him for his hospitality.

"Well, come back for some more of it another time," he said with a wink and a warm smile. He shook my hand, and I rushed down the front steps and into the waiting carriage.

As it rounded the corner of Christine's street, I looked out to see her one last time. Her back was to me, and her face was buried against her father's chest. He put one arm around her, and lifted the other in farewell.

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_Sorry to make this so short- I was going to include when Raoul arrives at the first destination of travel, but I decided it would be way too long that way (and thus take more time to get it up here), and also...well, hey, I'd say this is a pretty good chapter in itself! **Review** if you're reading this phic!_


	4. Arrival at Stockholm

_My readers! What happened to the reviews? Oh well. Fourth chapter's here, at any rate. Enjoy!..._

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The carriage brought us back into Paris and to a train station, and from there we journeyed to a seaport in the far North of France. The train ride wasn't long, but it was enough time for me to wallow even deeper in my misery at leaving Christine. I tried to cheer myself up, reminding me that this had practically been my life's goal since I could walk and talk and learn. I was finally going somewhere; I was going on an adventure! But the thrill of that wasn't enough. Christine was an adventure enough for me. 

But I didn't complain or sit and _look_ miserable, at least: I put on a cheery face for my family; especially my parents, since they were the ones who'd finally allowed me the great privilege of travel. They were excited enough themselves, too: it was the first time they'd been able to do this since Philipe was born; about fifteen years ago.

We got off the train and almost straight onto the ship we were to take from France to Sweden. Our final destination would be Russia, and Sweden was the farthest the ship would go (besides, the channel of water got too narrow after that, and was only fit for smaller ships). Once in Sweden we would travel to Stockholm, to visit and pick up any supplies we might need, and then we'd sail through the Baltic sea and finally to Russia.

The ship, in short, was a much longer version of that train ride: there was nothing to do except think. Out at sea one was left only with their thoughts and their feelings…and for me, both parts desired one thing only.

To wile away the time, Philipe and I would play complicated games of hide-and-seek throughout the ship and all the cabins: complicated because of the size of the great ship. Sometimes one game would last all day; I remember one time I hid in the sailors' kitchen and he never found me until one of the sailors discovered me and brought me up to dinner. It was silly and childish, the way we'd run around, and ask the other passengers if they'd seen the other or say that the other was lost, and engage them in the game too—but it did cheer me up a little, and it kept my mind off Christine (until I thought of how much fun it would be if she were here to play, too!).

We grew tired of the game after a while, and set about trying to help the crew man the boat. They were friendly, us being eager young boys desperate to work like men, and sent us off on little missions such as fetching ropes or sheets from various places on the boat. I realized later that these were probably just tasks to keep us busy and safe, and out of their hair so we wouldn't bother them—but they were kind, and I didn't mind doing the little jobs: it made me feel grown-up and responsible, and like the kind of swashbuckling buccaneer Christine and I had encountered in the books we read while I was at her house. While that thought made me miss her, I felt proud of doing it 'for her', and it was something to tell her when I returned home to her again.

After days of travel (which, to me, as a young, restless child, seemed an eternity), Sweden finally came dimly into view one foggy morning, and it wasn't long until we reached shore and disembarked.

For a few moments, all thoughts of Christine were washed from my mind by the sea we'd sailed through, and the thrill of adventure returned to me. This was what I'd wanted to travel for: the thrill of going somewhere new; the adventure of not knowing quite what would happen; the experiences that turned into stories to tell to awestruck friends once home again.

The place where we'd landed was more or less in the middle of nowhere, with the nearest town eleven miles away and also incredibly small. We had to go there in order to catch a train across to Stockholm, and the sight of it was an enormous shock to me: it was as different from Paris as black was from white. The streets were merely dirt paths, and the largest 'shop' there was the grain store. I couldn't believe anyone could actually live there and still be _alive_: they were like peasants out of a history book!

I voiced this aloud to my mother, who turned on me in annoyance.

"That's not nice, they're not peasants—this is just their lifestyle," she said sternly, and in a hushed voice, looking about as though she feared one of the 'peasants' might hear her. "You must get used to how not everyone lives like we do, in Paris. There are different cultures all around us; you mustn't insult them if you find them strange and different—and you shouldn't look down on those who don't have the money to live decent lifestyles."

At her words I felt a little ashamed of myself—but I just couldn't understand how exactly people lived if they didn't live like, well, me. I just couldn't grasp the concept of a miserable life. I knew it was shallow and stupid—but for me, the world was perfect. It was, as it is said, my oyster: I was rich and had a good family, and so the whole world was laid out before my feet. So I couldn't quite understand what it was like to be poor, or disliked, or shunned from society in some way—whether it was by distance, like this little town; or out of hatred, like the criminals I heard about who were always in the papers.

We didn't have long to wait before we boarded the train. The railway was a small one, and we were nearly the only ones on it: not many from the ship were traveling on to Sweden, and some who did were traveling somewhere other than Stockholm.

The ride wasn't too much longer than the one from Paris to the seaport, but still rather dull—that is, until the fog cleared, and we had the opportunity of watching the foreign scenery fly by.

I'd never really been anywhere but Paris, and the province of our beach house—so seeing so many different changes of scenery at once was overwhelming. First a journey at sea; then thrust into a completely different culture, and now…the countryside! Amazing as it sounds, I'd never seen true country. Paris is as urban a city you can ask for, and even our short ride from the city to the beach only passes through what seems a suburb of Paris. But this…it was my first time seeing nature this wild. Well, not _wild_—one could see the traces of farmers and their landwork, but most of it was untouched outdoor beauty, which fascinated me even more than the sea. Our voyage by ship had been exciting enough, but it was all the same after a while—cloudy skies, clouded blueish water—it had seemed almost endless. But now, as we danced past trees and meadows and fields of wildflowers, I realized how much of the world I had yet to see; how much time I'd wasted being sheltered at home in the city, all the while thinking I was an adventurous little boy by going to the shops on my own, or dipping in the water a bit to save a scarf…

Once more I felt the familiar pang in my heart as I thought of Christine, for the millionth time. How she would love to see this—not only was it an adventure, but it was like a fairy-tale adventure—her specialty. I smiled to myself as I thought this. How she would love to be watching this, like some magical vision or dream…for that's what it was to me. That's what adventure is, anyway, isn't it? It's just a vision, just a dream…then you wake up and you're back home; and while you dwell on it for a while, it doesn't completely affect you, because you didn't stay wherever you were—you came home in the end, and ended the dream…

I started as the train pulled to a halt and let out steam in a long, high-pitched shriek. I saw passengers through the window getting off our very train.

"Come, Raoul!" my father beckoned from the door of the little train compartment. "We're here!"

How long had I been daydreaming? I wondered, snatching up my little pack (my mother and father were managing the larger suitcases, since I wasn't quite big enough to carry my own yet) and hurrying down the steps. The second I jumped down to the platform, it seemed, the train took right off again, gathering speed as it screeched away.

"Where is it going now, Papa?" I asked my father, looking up at him.

He was only staring off after the train, watching it slowly fade from view.

"Who knows?" he said, his eyes still fixed on the spot where the train had finally disappeared completely. "Who knows?"

I might have asked him where we were going, for all he was paying attention to my questions, and he might have given him the same answer. I realized that that was where my love for adventure came from: my father was living in the same dazed dream.

Perhaps it's like that with all fathers, I though to myself, thinking (once again) of Christine and her own father. Her father believed in those tales…her father lost himself in music…that's why Christine's done the same.

It was almost frightening, how much influence parents had over their children.

After a moment we heard my mother's voice.

"There's a carriage waiting! Come along!"

We made our way out of the train station and to the waiting carriage, as my mother had promised. We were still slightly in the countryside of Sweden, but after a few minutes in the carriage, the faint outline of buildings, with a cloud of smoke hovering just over them, came into view.

"Where's that?" Philipe asked curiously, echoing my thoughts.

"Stockholm," both my parents replied.

Stockholm!

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_Et voila. As always... **Review!**_


	5. AUTHOR'S NOTE

_Author's Note_

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Alright—first of all, I apologize for doing this at all: I know how obnoxious it is to get a "new chapter" alert and then find out it's just the author(esse) making a note and being very dull, et cetera. 

But, I felt it was only fair to warn my lovely readers that I'm not going to be able to update for about 2 weeks—I'm going to Sicily, and there is a 98.7 percent chance(!) that I won't be able to use a computer, and a 99.2 percent chance(!) that even if there is, I won't be able to take the time to write up & post another chapter.

Well, I'm off—again, thank you for all the reviews and support! I know a lot of people are more or less very against the pro-Raoul-type phics…and I know that I myself have laughed at a few of the ones that portray him in a not-so-nice light. But personally, I find his character a lot more complex and fascinating that Christine's, for one; and few people really bother to go in depth into his character, or give him more layers. Basically that's what my aim is, besides indirectly giving explanations for all that he does in "the strange affair" that we all know and love (otherwise, why would you be here reading these phics?).

Alright, well, I'd say I've rambled quite enough for one evening. If you get bored, you can start on memorizing this whole phic up until this 'chapter'. (CyberRaouls to anyone who actually does!...)

Okay, shut up, me. Bye!

Signed,

_M'selle de Paris, Authoresse Extraordinaire_

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(!) : _Statistics based on Authoresse's dad's laptop. (Or sister's boyfriend's/boyfriend's friend's laptop.) Statistics also completely random and based on no real mathematical judgement. Statistics ALSO-also completely pointless; pay no attention to them. It's 2 AM and the Authoresse is tired, and is still trying to pack._

_And has to wake up at 7 AM._

_Which, in short- sucks._


	6. Haunted

_I'm back! At last- the promised chapter. If it's a little confused or seems, to you, somewhat pointless, I apologize profusely- I wanted to get this up, get their time in Stockholm done, so that 1) you all could have something new to read, of course!; and 2) so I can move on to the much more exciting parts...rest assured, I've quite an adventure planned for you all...! (PS- Speaking of 'adventure'- please don't shoot me for the amount of times I've used that word in this phic/just this chapter. Little heads-up; it's 1 AM and I'm feeling considerably more inarticulate than not!...)_

_ALSO: Thank you ALL, once again, for the friendly reviews- it's more than I could have hoped for, seeing the amount of anti-Raoul people out there bashing away...granted, I used to be one of them, but- oh, never mind. Just a quick shout to **TheQueenSarah**: I really appreciate the time you took to write that review; and I'm glad I've helped persuade you a little more on Raoul's side:)_

_Alors, enough of all this- onto l'histoire...:_

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It was really the first place I'd ever visited outside of Paris—visited properly, that is…finally a chance to explore things completely new to me; to see just a fraction more of the wonderful world I knew was still waiting everywhere around me. But I didn't mind that it was only one city—it was as amazing to me as a cruise around the world by sea would have been at that time, and besides, there was so much more we would see when we left!

The carriage had taken us to a fairly classy inn, and I was surprised to hear my parents conversing with the owners in fluent Swedish. Why had I never known they spoke it? Well, it wouldn't have been much use in Paris…but from all their travels, I reasoned, there was probably a lot more I didn't know about them.

We settled ourselves and our luggage in our rooms, and made our way into the cozy little drawing room attached to the bedrooms to sit a moment and talk over the rough plans. From the start, Mother and Father had warned us it wouldn't be like Paris at all; besides the fact that it was a completely new country, we wouldn't be running on 'schedules' as we were used to: the way they traveled was they simply went where their feet led them. It was yet another part of my parents I'd never seen: they'd always been firm in their raising of Philipe and I, of course; but more and more I was discovering their love for wild adventure and free-spirited wandering.

We decided that that day we'd not wander too far from the inn: the journey had been hard on all of us, but especially so for Philipe: he'd been green in the face since halfway through our voyage by sea. The next day, we'd explore the heart of Stockholm; afterwards, perhaps we'd travel along the outskirts to see every aspect of life there. We didn't have all the time in the world—the trip was mainly for Russia—but the deadlines weren't too harsh; we had at least a good four or five days to spend in Sweden.

That very night, as we wandered down one of the main streets after a satisfying dinner, we came across a billboard in front of a concert theater, with hand-drawn posters advertising various musicians and shows. We all paused a moment out of interest for the music—who could resist?—and Mother, Father and Philipe kept walking soon, but as I followed, a name caught my eye and I had Father translate the text of the ad:

_This April_

_At the Bergmann Theatre_

_Sweden's Best:_

_Charles Daaé, Violinist_

A sort of impressionist-style portrait was attached to the bottom of the page: yes, it was certainly him! Christine's father!

I'd always known he was an exceptional musician, on the violin especially—and Christine raved about him constantly—but neither had mentioned that he played professionally! Shame he wasn't coming when we were there…it would have been wonderful to see him perform for an audience…and perhaps Christine would come….

Christine again! Why would she not leave my thoughts? My excitement at the adventure of it all had occupied me momentarily, but now I was back to the longing. I hoped dearly that we'd find sufficient distraction in the days that followed in and outside the city.

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However, the respite I longed for from my little angel-on-earth's face was further from my grasp than I'd thought. As it turned out, the sighting of that advertisement was merely a warning as to his enormous fame there. Outside every theater; buzzing in every café—his name loomed over the city like a conductor's baton, ready to launch the full orchestra of the world into a great masterpiece. Indeed, the mentioning of Monsieur Daaé by every single person seemed to grow in a great crescendo—it came to the point where I was almost listening for it, and I was sure I always heard someone say it, every single time.

Our days in Stockholm passed quickly, though; one thing for which I was grateful—finally, I'd be free from the curse of thought forced upon me! But despite my inability to put her from my mind—obsessive, annoying, and repetitive as it was—I did enjoy the sights, the sounds, the _smells_ of this new place. Every step we took was an adventure for me—and while I wished I were taking those steps with Christine at my side, it was something I'd always longed for—finally, my dream was realized! And I wasn't about to take it for granted.

Somehow the trip brought Philipe and I closer, too—yet another benefit from the whole thing. We shared jokes and speculations; we would hide from Mother and Father together—dodging behind statues and columns and trees in the lavish gardens we explored, watching them as they either searched for us in a frenzied panic, or ignored our absence completely and reminisced of all their travels of years gone by. And it was true—Mother and Father were, for the most part, happier than I'd ever seen them before. If anyone was ever _truly_ "in their own element", as they say, it was them in this country, doing what they loved best: exploring a new physical place while they simultaneously explored new places in their romance. My own parents are the reason I believe in true love and marriage: things are always changing; "everything flows"—every day is new in love, I'd come to learn, just from observation.

Overall, Stockholm was one of the most blissfully peaceful and happy times I had in my childhood, surrounded by my family and their love. I knew not what Russia would bring, but as a family, even the negative aspects could be just what they were supposed to be: an adventure.

And, an adventure is certainly what I should have expected—for it's exactly what I got…

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_**Review!** Oh, and, tell me if anyone picked up on "everything flows"- WITHOUT consulting your copy of "Sophie's World" (big gigantic hint right there, by the way), tell me what philosopher voiced the famous saying...! ;)_


	7. Magician, Musician

_WELL- it has been quite a while indeed…I apologize profusely for the disgustingly large gap of time this story has sat without updates, I really do- __I always try to cut out time to write, but, we all know the all-too-familiar devil of procrastination. Funnily enough, I'm writing this one day into my semester exams- I honestly do not know what possessed me to take time out of studying to do this. I won't call it wasting time, but it is pretty stupid…man, I hope I do well on those exams._

_Anyways- that is entirely beside the point. The point IS, for anyone who's actually still reading this (who _is_, by the way?…), sorry it's taken so long- et voila! This chapter is really what's getting into the 'meat' of the story now, which is good news…so, naturally, it'll get me more excited about writing; and you can probably expect me to update again at some weird time like in a bathroom break between exams on Wednesday or something._

_Enjoy!…_

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The morning we were to leave Sweden dawned a dismal and dreary gray- and I knew this because I was there outside, standing at the harbor, to witness it. Mother and Father had woken Philippe and I at some ridiculously early hour, the two of us yawning and sighing as our parents chatted naturally and energetically about the days ahead and the very journey on which we were now embarking.

This was the main part, this was the very marrow of the trip; Stockholm had hardly been a short scenic detour on our way to our final destination. Russia was what Mother and Father were primarily excited about, and their enthusiasm was contagious: after all, Philippe and I had heard so many stories it was hard to keep our imaginations from wandering wild.

Finally the ship appeared, and though the boarding was slow, we were soon installing ourselves in our cabins, Philippe and I making claims to beds and attempting to unpack in any free shelves or corners of the cramped space. As we hopped around, our parents sat together murmuring softly, the excitement brewing between them almost palpable.

Finally Philippe and I settled ourselves down enough to listen and join into their conversation.

"How big is Russia?" I asked eagerly.

"Far bigger than France," Philippe put in. "I've seen it in my books."

"Oh, you and your books," I huffed. "Mother? Dad?"

"Bigger than two Frances, even," our father smiled. "So big we won't be able to see it all on this trip."

This disappointed me considerably, until I was reassured that that meant we would indeed be taking another trip back to see the rest.

"Where are we going in Russia?" Philippe asked finally.

This seemed an entirely new concept to me: before, Russia had simply seemed like some vast, foreign place with a way of travel entirely unlike France. It hadn't occurred to me that its size guaranteed there being lots of different places _inside_ of it.

To my great surprise after this realization, Mother and Father simply looked at each other with strange smiles and shrugged together.

"When we travel, we really just let things happen as we go," Mother explained.

"Wherever the wind carries us," our father quipped with a wink.

We talked a little more all together, Philippe's and my fascination growing with every word we heard. Soon, though, our hunger got the best of us, and our parents brought us to the dining area to have a large, if not slightly early, breakfast. We spent the rest of the day wandering about the ship as we had before, my brother and I getting acquainted with the other children we found and pestering the sailors once more, being at an age where shyness wasn't for a second in question.

It was our bedtime before we knew it, but we were certainly more tired than we knew. It had been an unusually long and active day, and I began to feel drowsy the moment we finished supper and began to return to our cabins. As Mother and Father tucked us in to bed, we begged once more for stories of their previous travels, and so we were lulled to sleep by their gentle voices spinning rich, soft tapestries of mystical adventures; lying just at our feet now, too.

This became routine every night on the ship, and our excitement and anticipation grew heavier and thicker with each passing day. It soon grew to the point where Philippe and I were so irritable that we refused to leave the cabin in the daytime, not wanting to partake in any activity that would distract us from our waiting adventures, and our parents had to force us out to be sociable with the other children (whom we believe, in turn, began to avoid us more and more because of our ill tempers).

Fortunately, that impatient phase didn't have to last long: one late evening, the captain passed the message around that we would be arriving the following morning. Philippe and I could hardly contain our excitement at this news, and we spent the night bouncing around as though mad until Father threatened to take us back home. (We slept quite soundly after that; partly for fear that he would fulfill his threat, and partly because the energy it had taken to be so excited all this time had exhausted us. Besides, we wanted to make sure we weren't a bit tired for the very beginning of our escapade across Russia!)

The morning of our arrival seemed to fly equally as quickly as our journey had been slow. From the minute we stepped out into the open air of the deck until we shut our eyes and slept that night, our minds and senses were filled with strange, bizarre, foreign but wonderful and exotic sights and smells and sounds. There were so many things new and unfamiliar to my brother and me that we couldn't even begin to try and discern certain Russian things our parents had described to us in their stories. We traveled from the ship's port by the water into the nearest town by carriage, but even the carriages there were different and strange. Philippe and I amused ourselves by trying to figure out what everyone around us was saying: the language sounded both harsh and fluid at the same time, strangely pleasing to our ears. But the only words we could possibly decipher were the driver's, which we could hear him yelling out to others along the roads and sounded the harshest of all: curses, we assumed, giggling to ourselves. We made mental notes of the sounds of the words to remember for our own amusement later. Mother and Father didn't even attempt to reprimand us: even they had lost themselves in this strange new world.

I couldn't even begin to try and describe everything I saw that day. Certain random details stuck in my mind, but others of equal importance have slipped, merely because there wasn't enough room in my mind for all the new things I encountered in that one first day. Some sights grew familiar to me, like the architecture of certain buildings, the carriages and horses, and the people's dress; but there were still so many new things to take in every day we were there that it would be impossible to recall it all.

We rode around for most of the day when we weren't walking, and my memories of that seem a big colorful blur. However, I remember the inn we stopped to spend the night at: it was large and therefore noticeable from the carriage window, so we got out and inquired inside about staying there for a night or two. It turned out they had plenty of room- though how my parents communicated with the Russians I never knew; perhaps they spoke it- so we went out a back door of the main room, walked down a pretty little garden-type path in a low courtyard, and stopped at one of the many little cottage-looking huts under the roof that surrounded the open area of the courtyard. It was nothing fancy, but it seemed a palace to my brother and I- it might as well have been; how were we to know what kind of furniture or lodgings were considered high-class in Russia? Either way, we could make believe anything our hearts desired; that was the real magic and beauty of travel in foreign lands.

That night, after wandering through the town and buying food to eat as we walked (such an outlandish, uncivilized way to dine! But, perhaps that was considered well-mannered in Russia), our parents got out a worn, slightly ripped map and pointed out to us where we'd sailed in, and where we were now. I remember seeing it on the map, but the name of the town was lost on me: I hardly cared for that; I only wanted to trace my finger along the map and imagine myself traveling by camel or elephant over the vast, dusty land that it represented. The thing that made this time different from doing it at home on painted wooden globes or in history books was that I knew I could very well be doing it for real the very next day; only hours from then. The mere thought of it stirred my blood almost to the point of making me tremble with excitement…and what letters I would write to Christine! What sights I would be able to describe to her! I could show her maps and trace my finger not along where I dreamed of going, but where I'd _been_.

The thought of Christine brought the world of my life in Paris to a crashing halt, clashing against this new world of Russian adventure. I'd hardly thought about her since we'd left Sweden. Part of me was enormously relieved: I'd left the painful memory of her behind in her own home country. But I was a little sad at not being able to take my imagination-Christine along with me on my adventures…it was probably for the best, though- the constant thought of her stopped me from being as joyful as I was while I was traveling. And, one day, perhaps I could actually take her with me; and have my travels _and_ my love…

Love! I felt silly thinking the thought: I was only a young boy; I knew it was absurd to go thinking I was in love with someone at my age. But yet another part of me felt grown-up and ready for it- I was old enough to partake in such dangerous travels, so why couldn't I be old enough to love? Anyways, I loved my parents, and I loved my brother…surely with Christine it wasn't that different. Perhaps it was that at this age it was impossible to understand love; that was why you couldn't love until you understood it, therefore you couldn't love until you were old enough to understand.

Pleased with my logic, I drifted off to sleep in the unfamiliar but comfortable bed I was sharing with my brother, and dreamed of the day to come.

We spent many days traveling from town to town in that manner; sleeping for only one or two nights in the same place before moving on to another town that seemed the same, yet had entirely new sights and places. It was strange to think that the people in all these separate, different towns had their own lives that mattered as much to them as mine did to me; but they all seemed the same to me: I didn't discriminate between Russians of one town and the next.

Already just the travel from town to town was an adventure to me on its own- we met so many interesting, eccentric (or at least, they seemed so to me) people on our way that I already had enough in my mind to write a series of novels on the trip thus far. However, my mother and father assured me that the adventure was really only to begin once we got to the heart of Russia; once we were out of the common civilized areas and into the wild of the land.

But for me, my own personal adventure began one day very soon after that. Perhaps it didn't impact my parents or Philippe as it did me, but what happened in the few days following our rapid initial travel would impact the rest of my life in ways I never would have imagined.

It truly began the day the night before we set off for a place called Nijni-Novgorod. (It was the only name of anywhere in Russia that I remember, reallyonly because what would happen there was so utterly crucial.) We'd stopped at an unusually lively inn; full of life and laughter of merry-making people celebrating their various events or simply enjoying a pleasant evening.

After putting our (considerably light) luggage in our rooms, we returned to the main area, the source of all the festive noise. As we sat down to a table, Mother and Father speaking to each other about where we were to go the following day, a man at a table next to ours overheard us.

"You are French?" he asked, in accurate French but a terrible accent, directing his question towards my father but looking at all of us in a friendly manner.

My parents engaged in conversation with him, Philippe and I only half-listening; curious that this man spoke French but not curious enough to follow their complicated, detailed discussions of French and Russian politics.

Soon, though, the man turned to look at us two with a smile.

"Do you like fairs?" he asked. "Carnivals? Games, and food, and magic?"

This perked our interest, and we both nodded, now fully attentive to the man.

"Your parents tell me you go to Nijni-Novgorod tomorrow. There is a wonderful fair there; a big, grand fair. The Great Yarmark. And a magician, a great magician, who does tricks, and magic- real magic!"

There wasn't a word he could say now that would slip past our ears.

"They say he is from God; they say he could turn water to wine and back again. And music, too- he sings, with the voice of an angel, they say."

"Who is he?" I couldn't help asking in a tumble, earning a sharp jab in the ribs from Philippe at my right. The man laughed.

"Who knows? They say an angel, but an angel wouldn't spend his time in a tent in a carnival in Nijni…"

Magic, and music! Once more I felt the memory of Christine nudging at the edges of my overflowing mind, and this time I welcomed her in willingly. This was one thing I really was profoundly sad she had to miss…it was just the kind of thing she would have loved, I knew.

A magician, a musician…I yearned with all my being for the next day to dawn. How could I sleep through the night now, knowing what I was to see tomorrow?

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**Review!** (Please. :-P) 


	8. La voix d'un ange

_Okay, so, yeah, I know, it's been ages- once again. But it's a nice long chapter, so I'll let you get to it without much ado- enjoy!_

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The minute I opened my eyes in the morning and got my bearings, I was fully awake and prepared for the day. But though I was out of bed and in my clothes in under five minutes, I looked around to see Philippe still asleep and my parents in the same state in their own adjoining room. 

Annoyed, I paced the room until it became too small to accommodate my speed, and I crept out the door (leaving it open, so I could return without having to wake anyone) into the courtyard.

The sky was still the dark, deep blue of a world at rest, and once I wore myself out with my pacing and skipping about, I settled myself down at the edge of the path just outside our door. I felt a sudden calm come over me; knowing I could do nothing until the rest of my family was awake; and for a long time I simply stared at the stars. Surely they were the same stars I saw over the sky in Paris; surely the world wasn't _that_ big…

And, all of a sudden, I began to feel the slightest fear of this grand adventure. Nothing that would distract me from the thrill of it all, of course; but it occurred to me gradually that while my parents knew a lot about what they were doing and had a good sense of the world and simply good common sense, I realized that they weren't the all-knowing, all-powerful people I used to look up to, who could protect me against anything. It was a strange, somewhat indescribable feeling… I remembered being barely five or six years old and boasting to my friends, "My father is so strong, he could lift our house!" It was the kind of naïve, ignorant belief that, over time and without much ado, you realize isn't the least bit true. It was in this way that I realized that my parents wouldn't be able to shield me from any and all of the world's dangers forever: no one is that powerful; no one is that sure of themselves and their lives. My parents would no longer be around one day, and by then I would be looking out for myself and quite probably children of my own, too; who would look up to me in the same devoted way I saw my parents until only a moment ago.

And I knew too, in that moment, that this didn't apply only to my parents: no one person is completely invincible, I realized. No matter how much someone achieves, creates, or even destroys, and no matter how frightening or powerful someone seems…no one is ever as strong as they appear.

Explaining the feeling was difficult; my thoughts and feelings were incredibly jumbled, as tends to happen with such philosophical thoughts in the late night or early morning. But- not that I knew it then- this revelation would turn out to be painfully accurate.

The sky remained dark for quite a while, and I realized I must have woken much earlier than I'd thought. Soon, though, I crept back into Philippe's and my room to see him finally stirring and opening his eyes.

"Philippe! We're going to the fair today!" I whispered, standing beside the bed and pulling at the covers.

He moaned and motioned for me to move away, but got up all the same.

I then progressed to our parents' room, where my mother too was still in bed, but my father was up and dressed with a knowing smile on his face.

"Thought you'd be along to pester us awake," he teased. "How long were you sitting out there?" He gestured out the window, and I gathered he must have woken and seen me through it.

"Not long. But I wanted to get an early start."

My father pulled me into a hug. "You really do take after your mother and I, you know…our little explorer!"

Filled with pride, I hurried back to my room to finish getting dressed. Philippe fortunately hadn't taken too long, and was putting on his shoes when I entered the room.

"So we're going to see the wizard man?" Philippe asked, his speech still a little slurred with sleep.

"_Magician_," I corrected, even though I knew no more about him than Philippe did- and we only knew what the man who spoke French had told us the previous night.

"Yes, same thing. But it's probably not real magic anyways."

This sparked an argument which lasted from the time we walked out the door until halfway through the carriage ride to Nijni-Novgorod, when our parents finally drew the line and shushed us.

"There are supposed to be a lot of interesting things to see there," my mother said, looking at the map. "I'm wondering what we should go see first…"

I opened my mouth to speak, but my father placed a hand on my arm.

"There will be plenty of time for the fair, don't worry," he said in a slightly exasperated but amused tone. "We just want to manage our time efficiently, so that we can see everything we want to see."

The ride seemed to last forever, and by the end of it my parents had decided we would go to the fair sometime after lunch, and that we would be staying for several days in order to see everything: the driver told us of many more sites and attractions and small towns nearby where the closest place to stay was Nijni.

We arrived at last around mid-morning and spent a good few hours walking around the crowded streets and looking at countless buildings and statues and other landmarks. I took in the sights with eager eyes, though constantly on the lookout for any trace of the fair the man at the inn had spoken of.

The day slid rapidly by, however, with no sign yet of the fair. I suspected Mother and Father were trying to delay approaching the area until the latest moment possible, for fear that I'd stay there for too long and we wouldn't have the time to see anything else at all.

However, that evening, their apprehension ended up being utterly accurate…

After a pleasant but somewhat rowdy outdoor dinner listening to the shouts and commotion and street musicians around us, Father finally asked a passerby where the fair was. We were informed that it wasn't far from where we currently were; and, with the help of the map, we found our way there soon enough.

The sight of it was similar to the other streets in the town, but the crowds were thicker, much thicker, than they were anywhere else. It surprised me, considering how late is was in the day; but I'd known from the respectful and admiring talk of the fair that it was quite an attraction, no matter the time of day.

Mother and Father debated loudly (for the noise of the crowds far overpowered regular speaking tones) whether we should go back and get a carriage; perhaps it was safer; but Philippe and I were already caught in the fair's charm, and wouldn't be swayed. So onwards we proceeded on foot, pushing through the throngs, our parents holding tight to our hands in fear of losing us in the great sea of people.

Philippe and I could only walk around wide-eyed, attempting to take in all at once the sights; sounds; smells; the raw magnificence of it all. It was a loud and boisterous atmosphere, teeming with attractions and entertainment, voices cutting through the air above the throngs; but at the same time it was in its own way a majestic sort of place; every single person from street-vendor to tent-dwelling magician completely worthy of being there.

We passed plenty of men who did tricks, and people pulling birds and rabbits from pots and pans; and I stared in awe at these small but impressive displays of magic. However, as we neared the heart of the fair, we began to hear more and more talk around us of 'the greatest magician at the fair'; sometimes 'in all the land'. (I even heard some star-struck children claim he was the best in all the _world_; but at this I was a doubter, and decided to make up my own mind once I saw this man.)

And then there it was. The tent was a large, tall and very dark one, both inside and out; the opening only a narrow slit between the heavy curtains as though some knife had slashed through the atmosphere into the darkness of nothingness.

There was a great crowd around the tent, assuring the fact of its well-renowned status at the fair. But the string of people entering the tent was beginning to thin out; the tent could only hold so many people. Eager to get in before the night was over, I grabbed Philippe, who was attached to my mother, and with my father on my other hand, I darted forward (fairly easily, at my small size) and we slipped into the tent only a moment or two before the curtains closed, and the show began.

We were at the back to begin with, but once my eyes adjusted to the almost complete darkness of the tent (save for a few candles), I slipped once more through the mass of people and managed to position myself at the front on the very right side: I had a full view of the front of the room…

There was a long table in the clearing at the front, on which the candles sat, flickering and glowing tauntingly in the musky dark. On one end of the table also sat several flowers of some kind, and beside them, a deck of cards; both curious collections neatly lined up and ready for use. And behind the table, his back to the audience, stood a man.

Just as I noticed his dark figure in the shadows, he turned to reveal a tall figure, dressed in dark clothes and a long black cloak and hat, the brim resting fairly low on his brow. But what struck me most about this man was the white mask, covering almost all of his face- the entire right side, and most of the nose and forehead, leaving only the area around the left eye, cheek and chin bare.

The performance began. The man spoke not a word, but the way in which he moved- smoothly; silkily; almost slyly, as a cat might- communicated to us his every intent.

The first thing he did was to pick up the deck of cards. Still not speaking, he performed a very simple but extremely skillfully executed card trick. It was one I knew I'd seen before and knew how it was done; but the way in which he did it left me in awe: I simply could not comprehend how he had done the trick so smoothly and sharply.

Throughout the entire 'show'- if you could call such miracles a mere show- I don't think I was ever able to take in the idea of this person; this unbelievably talented and mysterious man who left even the scoffing adults of the audience slack-jawed and staring. The whole thing seemed so surreal; I might have dreamt it all… Everything I'd learned and knew so far in my little life was denied and proved null in the space of but an hour in that dark, bewitching tent. Surely my eyes were betraying me; I couldn't possibly have seen everything I believed I saw there….

As the playful tricks grew to skilled manipulations and onto what could only have been something equivalent to magic, I sensed the climax coming; this astounding evening was sure to end in something unbelievable. That was why when the demi-god of a man cleared the table of everything but the flowers and stood behind them, preparing for the next act, I naturally felt somewhat confused. However, because of the extraordinary events of the evening thus far, I was far from doubting him now.

He said nothing in introduction to what he was to do next: now that I thought it over, I realized he'd hardly said a word at all. He raised an elegant, black leather-sheathed hand to silence the low murmur of the crowd; once all was quiet, he centered the flowers- "Lilies," I heard whispered near me- and opened his mouth as though to speak- or sing.

The moment the first trace of a sound- even the first wisp of air- came from his lips, I was paralyzed. He was singing…but his voice was of a jarringly unearthly quality, yet wasn't a jarring voice itself in the least; it slid like silk or silver through the gathering; it crept around me, surrounded me, and passed through me like mist or smoke. I'd never felt so utterly open and sheer in my life; yet my soul was suddenly filled with an inexplicable feeling of something like the most profound, winding sadness and unbridled euphoria all at once, and both of a near unbearable intensity. Upon hearing this man- this _angel_'s- voice, something changed within me…it altered a part of me I'd never even acknowledged before. It was a completely abstract, indescribable feeling- all I knew for sure was that his voice transcended the loveliest of voices of mere men; it was nothing less than heavenly.

But after the voice itself had sunk in, what shocked me even more was the fact that it seemed to be coming from the lilies. It even seemed as though the delicate plants moved and stretched and breathed as the voice did; rising up to fill the air with their sound. My grounded, sane mind knew it was the man who was making the sound, but more and more the newly changed part of me cried that the lilies were so devoted to him that they sang for him; a most beautiful and admiring tune to serenade this godlike man.

But all too soon it was over; my face was stiff with dried trails of tears and all was a blur. I knew my parents and my brother were scanning the tent for me; I saw them leaving; yet I knew I couldn't- wouldn't- leave this paradise full of wonder.

Without even considering my actions, I ducked down- unnoticed in the thick throng of bodies surging drunkenly for the tent's exit- and hid myself behind a fold of heavy black cloth at the side of the tent.

I don't know how long I waited there, but it was well past the time when the last person had left the tent and the cloth had swung shut and left the place dark but for the few flickering candles now burning low on the tabletop. And suddenly I realized I was entirely alone.

The dancing shadows I had only minutes ago longed to explore taunted me; they flowed around me and closed in tightly. One candle went out; all that was left of it was a puddle of wax that dripped off the table, stretching itself out and reaching inexorably for the floor. The sounds outside- if they existed still- were completely muffled by the thick walls of the tent; the only sound was my ragged, uneven breath and the dizzying high-pitched drone that grew ever more pressing on my ears- and suddenly a breath smooth as silk, overpowering the droning, that I felt nudge my ear ever so lightly…

I didn't even turn my head or make a sound, I didn't even think to; I only thrust myself so suddenly out of the curtain cloth that I fell face-down on the hard floor; I couldn't move; couldn't breathe; couldn't even feel the ground; all I felt were the firm, precise fingers quickly but painlessly grasping at the back of my neck…

…and then perhaps either all the candles went out, or my eyes shut, or the black cloth covered my head once again; I don't know which, but I could only guess in the split-second as all went black.

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_As always, **review!** Criticism is welcome, as well as compliments. ;)_


	9. French Nature

_Well, I would have gotten this up about two or three days ago, but my computer decided to take ages trying to upload it so I'm having to use another computer right now. Hey, at least it's up! Enjoy._

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The first parts of me to awake were my ears. A foreign, tinkling music sounded somewhere outside of me; the light, simple tune repeated over and over and grew slower and slower and finally wound down in the middle of a phrase and stopped. Silence for a few seconds; then a slow, deliberate clicking-cranking sound…and the music began anew, once more at its original tempo. Then it wound down a minute later as it had before.

A music box.

I finally dared to pry open my eyes. It was still dark; a black blanket of sky hung overhead- but no, it was only cloth; I could see the folds and dips of it. I was still in the tent…the magician's tent.

My mind and logic were next to fully awake, and I reassessed the situation and came to realize that I was not alone in the place. The magician; the masked man. Who else could have been winding the music box?

Try as I might, I could see no further with only my eyes from my position lying down. Slowly, carefully, I pulled myself up an inch at a time to find myself facing the long table in the tent. Two new candles burned on either end, and sitting on the very center of the table's surface was what appeared to be the figure of an animal- a monkey- adorned with elaborate gold ties and lacings and richly patterned fabric. It seemed to be the source of the music: tilting my head, I just barely saw the edge of a silver handle revolving slowly at the back of the box upon which the monkey was fixed.

Suddenly anxiously aware of my situation, I glanced quickly about the room: nothing but darkness. I couldn't even make out the space that was the exit in the heavy drapes of the tent. Forgetting for a moment the mysterious hand that had caused the music in my insatiable curiosity, I stood, staggered, and padded over to the table to examine the monkey music box. Just as I put a hand out to touch the lifelike fur on the animal, a dark shape moved swiftly and smoothly out of the black drapes, as though it itself had been made of darkness. I had no time to even turn my head before a slender but surprisingly strong hand grasped my wrist in a somewhat painful grip before my fingers had so much as brushed the monkey. I was locked there, so I turned to look at my assailant and found myself face to face with a pure white mask.

"You need to learn the art of discretion if you intend to be so inquisitive," the smooth but icy voice said, loud enough for me to hear but a person standing a foot away wouldn't have even seen his lips move.

I could hardly speak; I couldn't decide whether I was more frightened or relieved: he was the great magician I'd hidden in the tent to meet in the first place! But he'd proven he could be as dangerous as he wanted to be, and though I knew as a small boy I posed no large threat to him, I had no knowledge of his character…

Registering my fear, the man with the ghostlike masked face loosened his grip on my wrist, but his icy tone of voice remained. "What did you expect to thieve from this tent, boy?" His dark eyes bore into mine. "If you've nothing to say, _leave_."

His words and voice made me want to do just that- not because of their lack of friendliness, but something in his command told my mind to obey him and my limbs almost followed along.

But here I surprised myself. Perhaps I had a bit of adventure in me after all, for I didn't intend to leave until I'd had a satisfactory encounter with this phantom man.

"I…I stayed to- to m-meet you," I said; my voice trembled but my words were sure and I didn't look away.

He did not move, but seemed to stare through my eyes into my mind to see whether I spoke the truth. After a long moment he spoke.

"You were in the crowd watching this evening." It was a statement wanting confirmation, so I nodded.

"And your family. You stayed without them?"

I nodded again.

"Without their knowledge or permission."

I was beginning to feel slightly foolish now. It had been a silly thing to do, after all…I may never have been able to find them again later, and had this man not found me I may have been lost.

Finally he nodded sharply and released my wrist, which now throbbed slightly but felt better.

"You acted rashly, but with intent," he said softly, almost to himself. "Perhaps there's some…why did you want to see me?" The question was once again sharp and probing in comparison to his calmer, slightly more open attitude of only seconds ago, and it was flung out so quickly it took a moment for me to think to reply.

"You- your tricks- you were…I wanted to…" Thinking of it now, I hardly knew what I'd expected to gain from meeting him after all. "I only…" I felt his hard gaze upon me and felt suddenly like melting down in tears. "The show was amazing; I don't know, I wanted to- talk to you, I suppose…"

He seemed to realize that I couldn't possibly have been such a good liar to fake my uneasiness.

"Sit down," he said suddenly, and I saw a low stool of dark wood behind the table that I hadn't noticed before. He pulled it out to where we stood and I sat gingerly on the very edge. For a while I simply sat while he pulled several items- books and other things I didn't recognize- out of a black sac he must have pulled from a dark corner of the tent. Then, still sorting through his things, he spoke to me.

"I take it you don't live here."

I shook my head, still too ashamed to speak; then realized he might not have seen with his back turned. "No," I replied. "I- my family- lives in Paris."

"What brings you so far?"

"We're on an adven- we're traveling," I caught myself. How silly I would have sounded had I finished that first sentence…though, he probably knew what I had been about to say. I wished I would stop making a fool of myself in front of this great man; I was ruining any chances I might have had of proving to be a worthy apprentice, or at least confidant, to him.

I quickly tore myself from my daydreams. "Father and mo- my parents- used to travel here, and now that Philipe and I are old enough they're taking us, too."

"Philipe is your brother?"

"Oh- yes. He's older than me." I hoped he wouldn't meet Philipe later and like him better than me.

Now he turned to face me. "You are one eager for adventure, I see." There was something slightly teasing in his voice; he sounded much friendlier than he had before. "I'm familiar with the feeling. But don't let it steal your senses and make you forget…" He trailed off, and for a few moments silence hung over us. "Just be sure to keep your head about you," he continued finally. "Youth doesn't mean immortality."

He abruptly went back to arranging his things, leaving his words to sink into me. I waited with growing curiosity for what he would do next. Everything about this man seemed so unpredictable; so mysterious.

Suddenly he turned back with a deck of cards in hand. "Do you know any tricks of your own?" he asked.

I smiled nervously. "They aren't very good…" I began.

"Show me." He extended the cards.

I took them and proceeded to perform the few little tricks I'd learnt here and there; most from Christine's father during the drowsy afternoons spent at her house. He said nothing but watched and nodded his approval after each.

"You have skilled hands," he said, with something close to a small smile. It was the first true expression I'd seen on his face other than cold neutrality. It put me a little more at ease around him. "All you need is material to work with."

"Will you teach me the first trick you did?" I asked hesitantly. Perhaps he didn't want to share his magic.

To my enormous surprise, he let out a small, low laugh. It seemed at first very out of character for this stunning being to show such a human characteristic- and he even seemed a little surprised at himself. Perhaps he never normally had much reason to laugh; he seemed such a dark, solitary person I wouldn't have thought it possible. But his smoothness and spontaneity of character made it seem somehow natural physically.

"I will. You do have quite a lot to learn, boy." The way he addressed me seemed to make him remember something. "What is your name?"

"Raoul- Raoul de Chagney," I said.

"Son of the Comte, I take it?"

I nodded in surprise. "How did you know?"

The look in his eyes was unreadable. "I…used to live in France. Born there. Not Paris, but I'm familiar with the goings-on almost anywhere in the region."

Of course- the man was speaking French to me! I felt stupider than ever for not having registered it before- perhaps because he spoke it so fluently I didn't even think to. I wondered how he'd known to at first…and I wondered what he was doing here if he'd been born in France. It was the first personal detail I learned about him- I still didn't even know his name. I wondered whether he would tell me if I got up the courage to ask.

"What's the Comte de Chagney's son doing running about Nijni-Novgorod on his own, then?" he said. "I daresay your parents are quite worried about you."

Remembering the situation reluctantly, I began to rise. "You're right- how long has it been since I…I think I passed out?"

He seemed to avoid my gaze as he said, "Only an hour. But you're not to worry; I've sent someone to find your parents and tell them where you are. They should be here shortly; I can't have you wandering around the fair alone at this time."

"How did you-"

"I recognized they were your parents by sight, and the person I sent said he heard them speaking of the inn at which they are currently staying."

"Oh." I decided to no longer ask how he knew anything; he seemed to know everything.

"How long are you staying in the area?" he asked.

"At least another night more. Perhaps longer. I'd like to stay longer; then I could come back and see your tricks," I said, before I could stop myself.

Another light laugh. "And you shall," he said. "You seem to be a young man of good intentions; I'd like you to enjoy a longer stay here. Come tomorrow afternoon, if you wish. I'll show you one more trick then."

"Thank you," I said, feeling thoroughly undeserving but ecstatic. Remembering his show, I asked, "Will you show me how you made the lilies sing?"

"Ah, but that one might take a little more time to teach."

"I have lots of time!" I said eagerly, once again without thinking. "I mean- if you want to teach me…"

The smile was a little bigger now. "You know, I've never met so curious a little boy as you. You seem to want the secrets of the world all in a book just for you."

I smiled abashedly, unsure whether or not that was a good attribute. "Well, I also have a- a friend who sings, too, and she would love it; I could teach her, too…- I mean, that is, if you don't mind; I wouldn't want to-" I cut myself off once again. I really had to take control of myself.

"Ah, well, if she sings she may know all the musical tricks she wants. The magic won't wear off if just one more person knows, I suppose."

I grinned at the thought of telling Christine of all my adventures with this musician-magician, and teaching her his tricks. Perhaps one day I could even introduce them.

Suddenly I heard a muffled rustling noise behind me, and I turned to see a man appear in the entrance of the tent, holding back the thick fabric. The sky was dark, but the world outside where I sat was brighter than the tent.

The man was tall, straight, well-dressed, and- like the man who sat with me in the tent- looked thoroughly out of place at a rough foreign fair. Their air of familiarity and their similar appearances (though this new man did not sport a mask) made me figure they worked together.

"The boy's parents, sir," the man said. "They're outside." His voice was flat and level; it certainly lacked the musicality and pure life that the masked man's emitted, and the difference was shocking after talking with him for so long.

The great magician- musician- stood.

"It's been a long night for you," he said. "You should go out to your family."

Was it only me, or did the way he spoke the last part of his sentence seem to have a bitter edge to it? Either way, it was gone as rapidly as it had appeared as soon as he bid me good-bye.

"I'll come back tomorrow," I said eagerly, moving towards the opening in the side of the tent. He nodded and turned back to his table.

Before I passed through the exit, though, I paused. I had to know.

"Um- what…what's your name?" I asked, shy once again.

He turned back to me, and simply looked at me for a long moment.

"Erik," he said finally, softly; and I slipped out of the tent into my own reality outside.

My parents and Philipe were waiting only a few feet away. My mother was the first to rush at me.

"_Raoul! _I was so worried! Why in the world would you do something like that? You could have been lost; we had no idea where you were, what you were doing…"

She pulled me close to her, and I felt suddenly ashamed. I hadn't thought about this part of what I was doing, it was true.

My father came over too.

"I wish you would just tell us," he said seriously, but there was a note of humor in his voice. "It's not as though we wouldn't have let you try to stay and meet him."

"Well-" I began. It was true- my parents were ones who'd traveled as vagabonds in their own youth; they would have been willing to stay behind.

Philipe looked relieved, but a little jealous, too. But all I had to do was grin at him over Mother's shoulder and mouth, '_I'll tell you later_,' and he was appeased.

As we left the fairgrounds and walked towards our carriage, Mother asked, "What was his name, did you find out?" Father and Philipe, too, looked at me curiously.

I glanced back over my shoulder at the dark tent which steadily grew smaller as we walked away from it. I recalled the magician's own reaction at my questioning him.

"No," I replied. "I don't know."

I was the last to climb into the carriage. I pulled the door shut behind me, and the carriage took off into the night.

* * *

_Et voila! By the way, I shall heed no comments on Erik being out of character- he has his reasons for being so friendly towards Raoul. But I won't analyze it all here; that's your job. ;) **Review** to say anything at all!_


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